Resolute
by McMuffinDragon
Summary: America finds a harp in England's house


America walked down the empty London side street; he tried to remember which house belonged to England. They'd both made resolutions to try and do more together, somehow this wound up as America going to England's for tea once a month. It wasn't painful, and America was willing to choke down some crummy tea to see England happy.

After going to the wrong place twice (They all looked the same, damn it!), he eventually knocked on England's door. The Brit answered with a subdued smile. "You're late," He chided.

"Maybe make your house stand out a little more," America chuckled, hanging up his jacket. I wound up going to this lady's house, and she had to give me directions."

"Who's house?"

"I didn't stop to make friends," America gave the other a little hug. "She had straight, kinda reddish brown hair, slim, next to no rack. She had a little son with her."

"Oh, Denise," England remarked, "Yes, she's wonderful." America followed as England went upstairs.

"Arthur!" America said in fake shock, "I thought I was the only person for you." He laughed.

"You know what I mean," England barked, pushing him slightly. He opened the door into a musty smelling room at the end of the hall on the left. America could see in the faint light that it appeared to be England's storage room or office, perhaps both; he'd never actually been in here. England hustled over to the windows and drew back the shades. Light flooded in, showing just how dusty it was.

"What're we doing in here?" America asked, looking around.

"I thought it'd be nice to have tea in a new place." He gestured to a sofa against one wall with a small coffee table in front of it. "I'll be right back."

America looked around the room. There was a desk resting on the opposite side of the room from the windows. The wall behind it was filled with books. Some were so old that their titles had been worn off. The remaining walls were covered with old, yellowing maps. America smiled at the sea creatures drawn into the oceans. There were repeats of maps as newer editions came out. America could see the progression of the exploration of Africa as England's maps became more modern.

The rug on the floor looked like it had come from India, and a couple spears leaned against the wall in one corner. America sat on the couch and stared at the dust that fell through the sunlight. Then his eyes focused on what sat right behind the sunlight. There was a big curved shape under a dingy sheet. It was the only thing covered in the whole room.

Curiosity quickly got the better of the American as he rose and grabbed the sheet. Underneath was a big harp. America ran his finger down the dark wood of the bridge. He gave one of the strings a hesitant pluck. It rang brightly through the dusty room; America picked a few more, entranced. It sounded so beautiful even when he was only playing spontaneous strings.

"What are you doing?" England snapped as he came in the room with a tea tray. America started, and the harp gave a gorgeous noise of surprise as well as his fingers twitched against the strings. "Didn't I tell you not to touch anything?" The Brit dropped the tray on his desk, then hustled over, grabbed the sheet from his former colony's hands and threw it back over the instrument.

"You didn't, actually," America replied, turning back to where England had started pouring the tea into the two cups he'd brought up. He accepted the cup as it was shoved in his face and began heavily doling out the sugar into the brown water.

"That still doesn't give you any license to put your hands all over my things!" England took his tea and stay down on the couch with a huff. America sat beside him and stared at the harp. The sheet had now half slid off from England's flustered attempt to cover it up. It sat enticing someone to touch it, to play it, to make it sing after God knew how many years under that sheet. America couldn't take his eyes off it.

"I never knew you played the harp," America said, just trying to make conversation.

"I don't," England replied sharply.

"Huh, then why do you have one?"

"It's Ireland's," The Brit explained, "He left it here but won't come back to get it." America nodded. "He used to play it all the time when he was here."

The two were silent for a while, sipping tea. They both stared at the harp, one in fascination, the other in hatred. "Why don't you get rid of it then?" America asked.

England didn't reply for a long time. "Everything in this room is of great importance to me," he muttered, "They remind me of who I was." Then it all made sense to America: the Indian rug, the African maps, the spears were probably from Australia. "I can't just get rid of them, toss them away."

"Aw," America smiled, "You're so sentimental."

"Shut it," England grunted, getting up to pour more tea.

"Don't you have anything from me in here?" America asked, looking around. England reached over the desk and picked up something to show America. It was a rock that rested in his palm.

"It's from Yorktown," England explained, "I've also got those." He pointed to a couple masks hanging beside the window. Their usually bright colors had faded, but America could still recognize them. England sat next to him again; America's eyes fell back on the harp.

"Can't you play at least a little bit?" He asked. The annoyance radiating from England was more oppressive than the dust in the room. "I mean, you lived with Ireland for so long, you must've picked up some skill."

"If I try," England sighed, setting his cup down, "will you let the matter go?"

"Of course," America grinned. England rose; he got a little stool from under his desk. Its stout legs were carved with intricate designs, and America wondered which colony it had come from. England brushed the sheet from off the harp, and it fell silently to the floor like a gray ghost. He took a seat on the stool and poised his fingers on the strings. America leaned forward, expectantly.

"I-I'm only doing this for you," England muttered before he began. His fingers were stiff and awkward against the strings, jerking out a melody. America smiled from his place on the couch as England watched his own hands steadily.

Slowly, the Englishman got into a rhythm and the pace of the song steadied. He nodded along with the music. England felt something resonating deep in his chest, something he'd covered for centuries, something everyone else had covered by their invasions, something Celtic.

The dust seemed to still in the sunlight, pausing to listen before drifting around again. In the shadows England and the harp cast on the floor it looked like there were no strings, like England was simply pulling the music out of the air.

The song closed, and both nations sat in the afterglow, both a little surprised.

"England," The man on the couch finally said, he'd been afraid to break the beautiful silence. The Brit looked over at him. "Will you play some more for me?" England considered it, then set his fingers to the stings again.

For the first time in a very long time, England's house was filled with music again.

America returned the next month; without needing to discuss, England brought the tea up to the small room on the left at the end of the upstairs hall.


End file.
